He Ain't Heavy, Though He Might Be Crazy
by Tirya King
Summary: [G1] Response to the 28's meme. They save lives, defy evil masterminds, and join to form one of the most powerful gestaults ever, but can they stand each other and keep their sanity intact? A Protectobot's life is never easy, especially with four brothers
1. Naughty

A/N: Yup, toldja I'd be posting a bunch of stuff. This is another of the memes I picked up. I did these a year ago, and there are still a few not yet done. That should be rectified in time for my posting schedule. Anyway, so these are 28 ficlets dedicated to the Protectobots. Each prompt was requested by someone who could not only pick the prompt from a list, but also tell me if they wanted it to be slash or not, any additional characters to be included, ideas for it, etc. As with my other things, if something is slash, there will be a notice in the scroll-down to warn you ahead of time. Um… I think that's it for now. This first one is Naughty!P-bots. Non-slash. Enjoy!

Naughty Protectobots

A quick double-check to make sure no one was coming… and he was in. Blades crept cautiously to his brother's berth. That was it; this was ending one way or another. He'd had it up to his optics, and he wasn't going to take it anymore. He could only take so much before he snapped, and if he had to hear one more 'oh, Lord Worthington!' he was going to kill someone.

And that someone was most likely going to be his white nightmare of a brother.

Streetwise was out for the day, running his usual route in the city, doing whatever it was that Prowl had him do. He wouldn't be back until late tonight which gave Blades plenty of time to do the deed.

Now if he were an insane interceptor, where would he hide his trash novels?

Ah yes, under the berth. Blades braved the frightening underside of Streets' berth where it probably hadn't seen a decent cleaning since the Protectobot's creation. Some spare weapons and gadgets (surprisingly it was Streetwise and not First Aid who had inherited their creator's love of invention.) Even some of the other brothers' belongings were hidden away where none but Blades dare venture.

Just as he was about to give it up as a lost cause, the helicopter finally came across the mother load. Every trash novel the interceptor had managed to save from the Great Righteous Wrath of Prowl and Hot Spot™ safely stowed away next to an old box of pogs.

Blades fished out every last one, subspacing them to dispose of later. How could anyone ever read this slag, even for plain entertainment value?

He decided not to subspace the last one, activating it out of curiosity. May as well see what sort of strange appeal it had on his brother. Best to know thine enemy, right? Well, at any rate, that was his story and he was sticking to it. It wasn't like he was actually interested in reading this piece of slag.

Let's see… begin chapter one… 'The crisp autumn leaves fell around the silent form of young Emmeline Winging, the sole heiress of…'


	2. Happy

A/N: Here's the second prompt. Now Groove is a hard one for me to write, but when he behaves and 'clicks'… he really does make a lot of sense. This is one of those serendipitous moments.

Happy Protectobots

Primus he couldn't get out of there fast enough. All the noise and the bustle and the tight spaces… it was enough to drive a mech crazy. He couldn't imagine how fliers like Powerglide, Skyfire, and the Aerialbots did it. He wasn't capable of any sort of flight, in fact he wasn't too fond of heights period. Yet he needed his space.

Groove sped away from the Ark, dirt and rocks flying up in his wake. The motorcycle ate up the miles, unhindered by anything but his own physical limits. It felt so good to be out here... alone with no one but the clouds and trees to offer company. No one could understand… well perhaps Hound or Mirage, but even they only understood a certain part of it. Hound needed the wilderness, Mirage the solitude. What Groove needed was both. He needed it or he would lose himself, and there was danger enough every time he and his brothers formed into Defensor. For those moments when they were together in mind and body they _knew_ each other. Took on the personalities of the other. First Aid would know what the need for violence felt like, and Blades would know the cleverness of a master hunter. Of them all, perhaps Streetwise was most in danger of losing himself, but the danger was there for all of them.

Perhaps the others didn't see it as a danger. Some probably thought of it as a nice feeling, a way to be closer to one's brothers. Yet to Groove it was another cage put upon him. Of course he loved his brothers; their joy and pain was his own and he wouldn't have it any other way. But he was Groove, not Hot Spot, not Streetwise, not First Aid, or Blades. And Groove needed freedom.

He couldn't explain it all really. Perhaps it was the way he was made or something in his mind that developed after creation. He didn't know why he needed to leave so often, or why he didn't want company. All he knew was that this was when he was at his happiest. When he could drop any shields and just _be_.

Groove's trail led him past the major highway and onto a side road that led into the forest. If he continued on this road long enough he would reach the northern tip of California, and beyond that, who knew. He'd tried it once, but hadn't made it further than the middle of the state before being called back by an irate team leader. He wasn't supposed to wander so much without permission, what if something had happened?

Well fortunately today's travels wouldn't take him as far as that. He just wanted a place to be by himself and think for a while.

The young scout transformed and stepped carefully and silently through the forest to his destination. He'd made this journey hundreds of times, yet the ground showed no sign of wear; a tribute to his hard-earned skill. Just a little farther now and…

There it was. His own private paradise, just a hop and a skip away from the Ark, yet still untouched by it. No one else knew of this small cove as far as he knew. Very few took the time to wander the forests and coast as he and his two mentors did, and even then only Hound really wandered for the sake of it.

Groove sat down carefully among the wild dune grass and sand, making sure he disturbed nothing. Take nothing but memories and leave nothing but footprints, wasn't that the human saying? Well he didn't even want to leave those.

If he shuttered his optics, and listened to the rise and fall of the waves, Groove could almost lose himself in this. Yes… something like this he didn't mind being lost to at all. He couldn't be lost to a cage, but he'd offer himself to the waves and the air. They were free, wild, untamed… he wanted that.

Groove lay back on the sand, again, careful of every movement. He let his mind wander freely and become one with his surroundings. It wasn't quite like falling asleep or meditating, but it had the same effect on his soul. Why desire to be with the others and cramped in such tight spaces when one could be out here, with nothing but eternity and peace ahead? No war, no fights, no teasing and false smiles… just this. Just the tranquility that all life sought. The Autobots back there were all trying to seek it through violence and hatred and struggle.

But all he had to do to attain that tranquility was lay back, give up the struggle, and accept it. Primus Almighty, he'd never felt such happiness… such endless bliss and joy… It was enough to hold back the madness that threatened to take over, and let him pick up that horrid gun to keep fighting so that everyone, and not just he, could feel the same peace he felt every day at his cove.

For now, however, he would be selfish and smile. And lose himself to the happiness only he could find.


	3. Silly

A/N: This ficlet is so wrong… yet so much fun to write…

Silly Protectobots

"How you doing, kid?" Ratchet called from across the room. The young medic barely looked up to acknowledge his mentor before returning to work.

"I'm ok," First Aid responded. Just two months old and he had to perform surgery that a million year old medical student could be expected to do. It couldn't be helped though. Ratchet, Wheeljack, and Perceptor could only do so much; the apprentice was needed. After all, the shortage in medics was one of the reasons he was built in the first place.

Ratchet could do nothing but trust that First Aid had it under control. The boy had talent, that much was obvious. Good programming coupled with a good spark gave the Protectobots a strong future medic. Perhaps CMO material one day.

That day, however, was still far off; he was far too young to consider that now. He should only be working on surface wounds at the most right now as it was. It couldn't be helped though, and Ratchet had to pray that instinct and common sense would help the sparkling when rushed lessons could not. Besides, First Aid would call him if something bad happened. And as the hours went by and no cries of alarm interrupted his work, Ratchet began to relax.

Later that evening, when all the patients had been set down for the night, the CMO relieved the exhausted Perceptor and Wheeljack. First Aid he kept just a little longer. It had been a long and hard day, but everything could be used as a lesson.

Together they walked toward the line of patients that had been under the apprentice's charge. They stopped at each one, Ratchet offering corrections and First Aid repeating them out loud to get them into his mind. Overall, he had done well with few things that actually needed re-doing by the CMO.

"Not bad, kid," he patted him on the shoulder. It had been so long since he had had a student, especially one so young, that it felt strange to have someone watching everything he did, learning from everything he did. Ratchet hoped he was up to the challenge.

"Thank you, sir!" First Aid chirped back, eager to please and simply tickled at the praise.

Then they came to Sunstreaker's berth. Ratchet would have probably choked on his vocalizer if he were any less exhausted. "Wh-what the frag…?" he stumbled out after a few moments of stunned silence.

The young sparkling's visor lit up happily. "Did I do well?" he asked.

'Well' wasn't quite the word Ratchet was thinking, though technically it could describe the situation. All of the connections and re-wiring was correct on the troublesome mech. The welding job was flawless, and though the end result was bizarre as all slag, if one were to do such a… procedure, this was how Ratchet would have wanted it done. And really, for all the fuss that the warrior made earlier in the day, he truly had it coming to him. Too bad for them all, Ratchet had opened his mouth in response to the griping.

And yet…

"Kid… when I said that Sunstreaker would be better off with his aft for a head… this ain't what I meant."

"…It wasn't?"


	4. Angsty

A/N: I'm glad everyone seemed to enjoy the last ficlet. This one isn't funny, but I think it's one of my better ones. It was written on the airplane from Singapore (where I visited with PuraJo) back to China. This is the one that kind of got me more into Blades.

Angsty Protectobots

Whoever designed the morgue must have had a sick sense of humor. The lights were bright and cheery, and the windows and skylight let in nothing but bright sunshine. In Blades' humble opinion, this place held nothing but darkness and grief. The sun had no place here.

With uncharacteristic gentleness he moved from body to body, applying paint and fixing what he could so they would be ready for the ceremony tomorrow. This was a job that should take many 'bots many days, and truly he'd been at this for nearly a week. Finally he was at the end, and tomorrow they would leave this morgue and planet for the last time.

Only one more to go. The hardest of them all. His creator.

Wheeljack was not like most creators, they said. Most never kept any special bond with their sparklings. The Protectobots were built for a purpose, and their time for any sort of 'childhood' was unusually short. By all rights, they were just another handy gadget popped out of the shop. Yet the Chief Engineer never once let them believe it. Even when he no longer had anything to do with their training, he would always ask about them, come watch when he could, or offer a free audio when it was needed. There wasn't a mech or femme that knew him who wouldn't miss him. His creations most of all.

Carefully Blades took the remains of Wheeljack's battlemask in his hands, doing what he could to rebuild it. As the creation of a master inventor, Blades had picked up a few techniques here and there. "You're lucky," he remarked quietly to the silent body on the berth. "If I were Streets, this would never get done. He'd get distracted all the time."

He found it helped sometimes to talk to the dead as he worked. It made him feel a little less alone, and them a little more alive. With the rest of the dead, it helped. The Protectobot would mourn their passing, yes, but he wouldn't cry for them. Talking to Wheeljack now, trying to pretend he was still alive as he worked… Primus knew how hard he'd be sobbing tonight.

"Smokescreen said it's good for us," he said as he worked. "he says letting it out helps with the 'grieving process' or some slag." He snorted in just the way Wheeljack hated; the way that revealed his too-often cynical side. "Pretty words if they actually worked. You should see the way some of them are carrying on. I guess it's true what they say about friends. You never know how many you have till you die."

His mouth curled up into a pained grimace as his attention moved to the cracked earfins. There was nothing he could do about them; the material used to make them was rare and hard to shape properly. Perhaps only Ratchet or First Aid had the skill needed to do it. The red and white warrior quickly averted his optics from his dead creator's face, grabbing the tools needed to patch up his damaged chestplate. Once in a while his vision blurred, but he cursed it as exhaustion and worked on.

Even though he tried, Blades couldn't seem to distract himself from his wandering thoughts. Every glance at the mech before him brought on a new memory. Most of them good, though certainly not all.

He remembered the exact moment he came online, confused and frightened. And he remembered seeing each of his brothers for the first time, and the patient white mech who was standing there, so eager to greet him. He remembered the first time he took to the sky, and the training sessions Wheeljack and his brothers had, carefully disguised as games. And he remembered when he was no longer considered a sparkling, but a warrior, and the Protectobots were first sent out to the field. The whole time he'd been so nervous, desperate to do well so the white mech waiting and watching for them would be pleased. He remembered each time he or his brothers were injured and how Wheeljack somehow always managed to find an excuse to work in the medbay that day.

Wheeljack never coddled his creations, or kept them from their duties for selfish reasons. But Primus help whoever harmed them in any way. He was a good parent, the best if you asked the brothers. He always had their back no matter what. Yet when he needed help, when he needed his creations to return the favor… they hadn't been there.

And now he was dead.

"I'm sorry," he murmured brokenly to the white mech, replacing the green on his chest. "I know it doesn't help and I know you'd tell me I shouldn't be, but I am. You created me to defend and I can't even protect my own family."

To most of the Autobots, Blades was little more than Cliffjumper with a rotary system. Some even considered him another of Wheeljack's many mistakes. How could such a hotheaded braggart possibly care about anyone else? Oh sure he cared for his brothers, but only as far as far as his duties as 'brother' would take him. Obligation, not true care and love and devotion.

What those same Autobots _didn't_ know was that the love Blades carried for his family was intense enough to destroy someone in the right situation. When he was first created, young Blades wouldn't let his brothers or creator out of his sight, even for a moment. He would tag along everywhere they went, often close enough to touch. And when the time came for him to 'grow up' as it were, of all his brothers Blades tried to hold onto his life as a sparkling most of all. It got to the point where Wheeljack had to raise his voice and physically toss his second-youngest out of his shop.

At the time the rejection stung far worse than Blades would ever admit, though years later he was able to admit the favor his creator had done for him. There was no way a dependent sparkling could continue to live in such times. He had to grow up, and he had to do it as quickly as possible. These past years had done much in raising the five young ones, this week most of all.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, welding a snapped wing. "They wanted to be here, they did. But they couldn't…" He sighed in frustration, hands gentle despite his mood. "They're all complete messes… all four of them. I don't know how to help them. Groove took off as soon as clean-up was done, and Streets is pretending everything's ok even though he still cries at night. Aid and Spot are both having a contest on who can work themselves to death first 'cause they don't want to think about anything. How do I help them, 'Jack? I don't know what to do."

The corpse didn't answer. But then he didn't expect it to. Wheeljack always had advice, even if it was to stop being a motorhead and just do what needed to be done. Maybe that's what he had to do now?

"But I can't," he argued back to no one. "I don't know how. I'm no good at any of this. They'd always listen to you, but why would they care what I have to say?"

He was their brother, wasn't he? Of course they would care that they were hurting him unintentionally.

"Not this time," he sighed. "They're too upset to notice anyone else's misery. For all they know or care, I may as well be here on a berth next to _you_."

The moment he said it he regretted it. He could only imagine the furious glare Wheeljack would send him for it as well. They were brothers! Quintets! They meant more to each other than any other single being ever would.

"I know," he cried miserably. "But how can I help them? How do I protect them?"

In his mind's optics Blades could almost see the ever-patient but utterly exasperated look on his creator's face. The answer was so simple and yet he still couldn't see it. Or perhaps he _wouldn't_ see it.

"But you…"

The dead were dead. And as spruced up as they would ever be. His brothers, as pained and tired as they were, were alive.

"Ok, alright," the red and white finally conceded, putting down the paintbrush at last. "You win."

Placing a hand on Wheeljack's forehead in silent prayer and nodding in respect to the other fallen, young Blades said his final goodbye. He promised Ratchet he'd take care of First Aid. To Prowl he said he'd try to keep Streetwise out of too much trouble. He told Mirage he'd see to it Groove came home instead of wandering in loneliness like one of his mentors loved to do. To Optimus Prime himself, Blades swore to help Hot Spot become the leader he was meant to be. And to Wheeljack he promised not to let these days leave him the same angry mech he'd always been. Yet nor would he let them destroy him. The dead were the dead, but he still had a long life yet ahead of him.

But first, he had to see about a few brothers.

The doors shut tight behind him and one by one the lights shut off, partially hiding the pristine honored mechs in shadow, bright new colors played with by the evening sun just outside the window.


	5. On Vacation

A/N: This isn't meant to be slash, but I know I have one or two friends who might wish to see it that way ; ) However, I still label it non-slash, but is open to interpretation if you're so inclined.

On Vacation Protectobots

"Silverbolt, would you relax already? Primus, you're starting to remind me of Red Alert. Now come sit down."

The Aerialbot Commander looked back at his friend. "I know, but…"

"But slag, 'Bolt," Hot Spot crossed his arms, leaning back against a sand dune. "Prime gave us the week off. So let's enjoy it already!"

One week. That's what they were promised. One week of nothing but sun, fun, and a friend's company. It was odd for the two commanders to be without their brothers, but it was halfway because of these brothers that the vacation was needed. One could only deal with a family's insanity for so long before needing a break.

"I suppose you're right," Silverbolt nodded, still a little unsure. The thought of his four brothers having free reign without him there to corral them was an unsettling one.

"Of course I'm right," the blue mech said with confidence. "My primary function is to be right."

His friend chuckled with amusement. "And the team leader and rescuing business is just a perk?"

"Hey, a mech does need a break now and then from being a genius."

"Indeed." The sand felt warm against Silverbolt's feet, and the late afternoon sun eased the tension in his shoulders. Perhaps a week of vacation with the gregarious Hot Spot wouldn't be so bad after all. "So what shall we do first?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, when one is on vacation, one usually takes part in different recreation activities, correct?"

"Like what?" Not it was Hot Spot who was puzzled.

"Well we brought a ball. Perhaps we could play soccer or volleyball. Or there's always swimming as long as our vents are properly sealed. Or we could…"

"Hey, 'Bolt?" Hot Spot interrupted, smile evident in his scarlet optics.

"Yes, Hot Spot?"

The Protectobot reached and tugged the mech down to sit with him in the sand. "How 'bout we just sit here and watch the sun set and play it from there?"

"Ah… yes, that would be nice as well."


	6. Horny: Slash

A/N: For those who don't know me and my stuff on livejournal, this pairing will seem very odd. Ah well, you'll get used to it ; ) This is one of the ones that crosses over with one of the 28 Sideswipes as well.

Horny Protectobots

"…A what?" First Aid stared down at his patient incredulously. "Would you mind repeating that?"

Sideswipe sighed, lying on his stomach, arms crossed beneath his chin. "I already told you, Aid. There was this little old lady who decided to play chicken with me. And I couldn't just run into her, that's not very Autobotish. So I kinda… ran off the road…"

"…And into a mailbox, garden gnome, some shrubbery and telephone pole." He couldn't keep the humor out of his voice if he tried.

"Actually, it was the garden gnome, some shrubbery, and then the mailbox and telephone pole," the warrior grumbled, pride smarting more than his wounds. It wasn't every day that one got their can kicked by an elderly female human.

Not even bothering to hide his laughter, First Aid set to work clearing out the red mech's systems, checking for any damaged lines or systems. "Well the good news is that the worst of the damage appears to be dents and scrapes."

Unfortunately for him, Sideswipe didn't think any part of this had an upside and remained a pouting, mumbling mess. Oh well, the young medic was having a great time with this. If he had his way, Sideswipe wouldn't be hearing the end of it for a good long time. No, he wouldn't spread it around the Ark… well ok, nothing further than his brothers. If it spread after that, well, then it spread. It wasn't every day that one of the infamous Lambo twins had such a pride-crushing experience. First Aid cared about them, Sideswipe especially, but that didn't mean he couldn't use an ego check now and then.

His ivory hands moved expertly over the other's chassis, removing dirt, shards of wood, and what looked suspiciously like a mailbox's red flag. First Aid quickly came to realize just how long it had been since he'd felt the other's body beneath his fingers. They were both so busy, between Sideswipe's profession as a land-based kamikaze and First Aid's as surgeon-in-training, they saw very little of each other. And usually when they did see each other, it was when the former was too injured to do much more than lay there in pain.

Much too long since they'd seen each other under more… pleasant circumstances.

He should probably feel bad for what he was about to do, but really, First Aid couldn't stop the smile that slowly spread across his covered face. Yes, it had been too long and the red warrior probably knew it just as well as he did. With just as careful a hand as before, the medic shifted his attention to a certain seam in his back; one he knew was particularly sensitive. There was some dirt in there anyway; surely it couldn't hurt to fish it out for the poor warrior.

Sideswipe's optics gradually began to power down as the red and white saw to his scrapes. He wouldn't admit it to anyone else, probably not even to the mech in question. But he almost enjoyed it when he was injured enough to pay the Med Bay a visit. True, whatever sent him to said Med Bay was usually less than pleasant, but the treatment he received couldn't be complained about. First Aid's hands were as gentle as they could be pleasurable, and one was never in pain when in his care. His touch was soothing, it was relaxing tension Sideswipe hadn't known he'd had.

Barely keeping in a yelp of surprise, Sideswipe's optics came back on with a flash.

"Oh, I'm sorry," First Aid apologized softly. "Did I hurt you?"

Far from it; the touch had sent a jolt down his spinal circuits that left even his feet tingling. He wasn't quite sure what had been touched, only that he wouldn't mind being touched there again. However, he denied being bothered and continued to rest on his stomach, this time fully awake.

Perhaps it had been just a slip of the finger and the medic had accidentally touched a sensitive circuit. It would be a fine excuse, except… First Aid never slipped. Not this late in his training.

This was further proved as a second energy rush, this time spreading across his chest, coursed through him. He couldn't deny the small shiver that ran through his body this time. With a questioning glance, he looked back at the medic, wondering what was going on in that sharp processor of his.

"Hold still," First Aid ordered gently, no trace of anything but innocence in his voice. "I can't repair you if you keep moving."

Sideswipe continued to stare at him, wondering if perhaps the medic really didn't know what he was doing to him. In the times they'd been together, it had almost always been the warrior that started it. First Aid was young, inexperienced. A wonder with his hands, like all medics were. But it was quite possible he didn't know what he was doing to his lover's body right then.

Whether he knew what he was doing or not, the medic was certainly creating a very serious problem. It wasn't until perhaps the 4th 'slip' where First Aid brushed up against a bundle of nerves at his lower back that Sideswipe really realized how long it had been. It seemed like everywhere that was touched was raw and almost painful. Yet he didn't want it to stop; he was willing to make up some imaginary pain just so that First Aid would keep touching him.

A soft whimper was forced from his clenched jaw as a stubborn twig had to be fished out of his side seam on the right. A rather… sensitive spot as First Aid found out one particular evening.

"Are you alright? I'm not hurting you, am I?" the medic asked, delicate ivory fingers still teasing his circuitry into madness. "I'm nearly finished with it, just a stubborn part that won't come out."

"Fine," he rasped out, voice a little lower than he intended. The red mech's optics dimmed to a deep indigo, trying his hardest not to leap up and repay all that had been done to him. All that he was _doing_ to him.

That was it, this had to be on purpose. There was no way First Aid was working him up like this and not knowing exactly what he was doing. Turning his head again he sent him a look that told the medic he knew what was going on. As if First Aid cared. Sideswipe could know all he wanted, it didn't change a thing. Ratchet was just in his office a few feet away, and he would be less than pleased to learn just what was going on. The red mech was at First Aid's tender mercies until he was released.

With the mask on, Sideswipe couldn't see the wicked grin on his lover's face. However he hadn't been a warrior for so long without being able to read body language. And he could see the smile without actually being able to see it. Cocky little medic…

The moment the warrior's head went back to its original spot on his arms, the 'attack' resumed as if it hadn't even stopped. First Aid systematically explored each seam, sometimes with a firm confident hand that flared the circuits he touched. More often than not, however, the touch was light and teasing. Those were the worst, and if it weren't for the fact that it would be giving into the mech, Sideswipe would have turned the tables within a cycle.

He couldn't help the low moan that escaped his traitorous lips as those hands slipped along the edge of his jetpack. "The slag… are you doing?" he asked, not quite as steady of voice as he would have liked.

"Making sure all your dents are smoothed out. You wouldn't want Sunstreaker to see what sort of state you came in." Another firm sweep of the joint where his back met his shoulders. Another gasp. First Aid was enjoying this way too much. "You'd never hear the end of it."

Alright, that was it. The red and white was going down. Propping himself up on his hands, Sideswipe spun to stare at the other mech heatedly even as he trembled with need. He was sick of just lying there and taking it like some lump. This time it would be First Aid squirming while he did what he wished.

First Aid caught the look and matched it with his own, though it was impossible to see with the visor still on.

"Hey, 'Aid!" Ratchet's voice bellowed out of his office.

Startled, both patient and medic jumped, looking like children caught sneaking out of the house. "Ah… yes, sir?" First Aid called back, a slight shake to his voice that Sideswipe wondered the origin of.

"Aren't you done yet? We still have inventory to get through and it won't do itself."

Of all the rotten luck… "I'm coming." First Aid turned back around to Sideswipe. "I guess I'll… see you later."

The red mech sat there for a moment, not quite sure what was happening. He was being dismissed? Just like that?

The medic didn't even wait for an answer before leaving, half afraid he would just go back to touching him. When he looked back at the door to Ratchet's office, he saw the Lambo had beaten a hasty exit. Not that he blamed him; he'd worked up as many circuits as he could… his own hands were tingling from the sensation.

They were still tingling when he received the datapad from his confused mentor who wasn't sure what was going on with him. All he had to do was finish this task… finish it and he could ask to go on an energon break. Just long enough to find Sideswipe and finish what he'd started.

Just as he went to enter one of the walk-in storage closets, he could hear Ratchet calling out from the front door. "I'm going to grab some energon, want some?" He gave him an odd look. "You look like you could use some."

Well there went his excuse…

"Uh… yeah, boss, sure. Thanks." Seemed like he was waiting a bit longer after all.

With a sigh he turned to get back to work, only to be nearly pulled off his feet. The next thing he knew, First Aid was pinned to the wall of the closet, rough lips at his neck. "Sideswipe?!"

"You slagger…" the warrior murmured in a deep affectionate voice. "You knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you?" A nip just beneath his mask. "So you like playing games, huh?"

"Sideswipe, we can't…" the medic tried his hardest not to give in. "Ratchet just left, he'll be back in just a few cycles."

The red and black reached for the latches of the mask, virtually purring. "Then why are we wasting time talking?" He grasped for the doors of the closet, pulling them shut.


	7. Transforming

A/N: This was a half finished ficlet for the longest time and without any real direction. I liked the concept but not where it was going. Then I decided that it would fit this prompt rather well if I tweaked it, so tweak it I did. Though I have to admit that sparkling!P-bots have a special place in my cold black heart… CMO!Aid just about equals that in my book. He was much fun and I hope I can write more of him in the future.

Transforming Protectobots

"So why are we on this rock?"

"Hush, Blades," Hot Spot warned in a low tone. "Someone's going to hear you."

"So what?" the flier grumbled. He hadn't been off the shuttle for five minutes and already he hated it here. As far as he was concerned, his home was Earth. Anywhere else wasn't worth his time, with perhaps Cybertron as an exception.

"Most of their medical staff were killed in the last Decepticon raid," First Aid replied, falling back a step to talk to his brother. "They asked Rodimus for someone to bring it under control until their permanent replacements can arrive."

"So why send you? You're the CMO, you're needed on the front."

The red and white shrugged slightly, while Streetwise grinned from the back of the escort. "They asked for the best, so the best they were sent!"

First Aid ducked his head sheepishly, but otherwise didn't betray the blush beneath his mask. "Perceptor and Triage will be fine till we get back. It's only temporary."

The group of five finally made it up to the meet-up point where a small group of 'bots waited. Some looked like officers or simple medics. Most, however, were guards and armed heavily enough to give any small force a run for their money.

"State your business before you come any further," the green and black at the front warned.

"My name is Hot Spot," the Protectobot commander said before indicating toward the brother at his right. "This is Chief Medical Officer First Aid. Rodimus Prime gave us orders to offer medical relief until reinforcements arrive. This is the rest of my team, the Protectobots."

The green and black looked over at the five brothers for a moment before nodding to the guard. "Stand down. They are who they say they are. First Aid, you come highly recommended to us by your commanders. Let's hope you can make some sense of this mess." With a curt nod from him, the whole group made their way back, escorting the newly arrived. "My name is Switchblade. I'm the commander of this unit."

"I'll do what I can, sir," the medic replied, falling in step next to him. "The rest of our team is also competent in basic repair."

Switchblade turned to look at the other mech with a puzzled expression on his face. "You… how old are you, First Aid?"

With a sigh, First Aid forced himself to look straight back through his visor. "Not yet a vorn, sir."

Switchblade stopped at the answer, jaw slack in disbelief. "Not yet a… but there must be some kind of mistake! You aren't the First Aid I requested."

Blades immediately jumped to his brother's defense. "Well how many other CMO's named First Aid do you think we have, huh? He's old enough to get your stupid repairs done."

"Blades," Hot Spot admonished sharply. He sighed and shook his head. "Forgive him, Commander Switchblade, he forgets himself sometimes."

The mech nodded but still looked unconvinced.

"I assure you our First Aid is fully qualified," the blue Protectobot went on when the medic didn't defend himself further. "He was appointed by Ratchet himself before he died."

No one noticed the red and white flinch at his words. Nor the slight clench of his fists when Switchblade finally looked comforted. "Ah… well then, that's fine. Forgive me, First Aid."

"Not at all," the CMO replied in his characteristic soft tenor as expected. "Now if you would kindly show us the way?"

"Yes of course. Right this way." The mech led them through a series of tunnels that made up their new base since the last one was destroyed. The group was silent the rest of the way, and outwardly there was nothing but calm confidence in First Aid's stance. Inwardly, however, was a whole other matter.

When he was younger he would have delighted in being known as Ratchet's apprentice. There was credibility in the title. A sense of respect and honor. There wasn't a mech or femme who didn't know the name. But now… there was no one who knew the name First Aid outside Rodimus' immediate unit. No one who saw anything but a mere kid, barely out of sparklinghood, who had been unlucky enough to be dumped with a dead mech's rank. It wasn't until he referred to himself as the apprentice of that mech that anyone took him seriously

Lately it had been getting to him more and more too. So much so that he was beginning to resent the mech unknowingly at fault. Because of Ratchet, First Aid might never be more than 'the apprentice.' And that was one title he'd long grown out of. He _was_ a good medic, despite his age. Perhaps not the greatest, perhaps not even in any upper percentage. But he was good. Why could no one else see that?

"Here we are," Switchblade said, leading them at last to the inner sanctum of the base. This room was the size of a large shuttle hangar, and nearly filled to the brim with the dead and injured. A horrific sight even for those born and raised for war.

"Well?" the commander looked at First Aid, a hard skeptical look on his face, _daring_ him to do what his rank said he could do.

First Aid stared around the room for a moment, amazed at the level of carnage to which the war had taken this small outpost. What would Ratchet do…?

Stop! He straightened up and mentally shook his head to clear his processor. Ratchet wasn't here, _he_ was. He was the CMO and despite what anyone wanted, he would have to do until they got their own medics transferred over. Ratchet was dead, and if he ever wanted people to look at him as his own mech, first he had to think of _himself_ as his own mech. He didn't need to know what Ratchet would have done or not done. He already knew what _First Aid_ would do and not do.

"Hot Spot," he said in a calm commanding voice. "I want you to start a triage. Blades help him. I want a group of low priority, middle, and ones who can't wait. And then… I want a group of 'bots to keep comfortable."

"What about us?" Streetwise asked as his two brothers moved to obey.

"Streetwise, I want you to go through this base top to bottom and take _everything_ that can be used. Groove, you're with me."

"Now wait just a klick," Switchblade began angrily. "We've already put our supplies in here. You do not have the right to…"

First Aid ignored him. "You know what to look for right?"

"Course I do," Streetwise grinned, dashing off down the hall.

"This is completely out of line!" Switchblade railed. "You have no authority to…"

"I think you'll find I have every authority in the galaxy," the CMO replied, voice as calm as ever, but with a touch of steel imbedded in it. "I am the Chief Medical Officer under Rodimus Prime, a member of his senior staff, and I am fully qualified to assume command of any medical setting where I am called in to work. As 70 percent of your troops are far from full functioning status, I'd call this a 'medical setting' in every meaning of the phrase, minus the abysmal quality of your set-up which I am going to rectify shortly. Now you have two options available to you. You can keep playing galactic war hero and let your unit perish, or you can stop questioning my abilities and let me do my job."

If the other mech felt bullied he didn't let it show. "If Ratchet were here, he'd…"

"He'd have already sedated you and taken command. I'm not Ratchet, and you'd better be thankful for that fact. But I _am_ just as qualified as he was, and I will not be insulted any longer. Now step aside before I do get those tranquilizers."

Perhaps he himself couldn't view the transformation he'd gone through, but the smaller scout at his side did. As did the commander being scolded like a first year cadet. Certainly Switchblade hadn't expected such a response from the quiet, gentle First Aid. Anyone in Rodimus Prime's unit knew better then to get between the CMO and his patients, for there were few places more dangerous. First Aid was no exception to this rule, despite his pacifistic stance, and today Switchblade learned this as well. He had been flirting too close to the line between annoying and a threat to the well-being of patients, and First Aid let him know exactly where that line was. He retreated with nary a glance back, looking as though he'd swallowed something foul.

Gone was the meek little brother, Groove saw. No more self-doubt and questioning; there was no more time for that. First Aid was good, more than good, and he had finally realized it. He still had a long way to go before they got to see just what sort of medic he was meant to become, but today he'd gone a long way in achieving that goal. No one would forget who First Aid was now, and he didn't need the legacy of a dead mentor to prove his worth anymore.


	8. Excited

Excited Protectobots

"Now are you sure you have everything?"

"For the last time yes!" Blades gave a long suffering huff. "Sheesh, you're worse than 'Aid!"

The medic in the corner pouted at his words. "I heard that!"

Hot Spot crossed his arms. "I just want to be sure. This is our first time out there and I don't want anything to go wrong."

"Relax, big bro," Streetwise grinned, practically vibrating where he stood. Now and then he would peek out beyond the lip of the Ark's entrance at the battle just at the horizon. "This is gonna be great, you'll see!"

"It's not supposed to be great," frowned Groove. "We're only gonna be called out if…"

"If they need their afts saved," Blades finished with a smirk. "No problem."

"Where's Wheeljack?" First Aid asked, nerves starting to get the better of him.

"Already on the field," replied his leader.

No one spoke again for a long while, too busy preparing themselves mentally. Each wanted to do well: for themselves, their brothers, their creator, and their friends. Each was a mix of afraid and excited, making the wait that much more unbearable.

Streetwise gave a reassuring smile to Groove who was looking more and more nervous as time went on. "Don't worry. We're gonna be awesome."

"You sure?" the scout asked, trusting the firm confidence.

"We've trained all three months of our lives for this," First Aid added quietly. "We can do it."

As though waiting for such a cue, their radios crackled to life, Prowl's voice cutting through their thoughts. "Defensor, we need you now!"

"You heard him, Protectobots," the young commander rumbled, standing up straight. "Let's get out there and show those Decepticons who we are!"

Together, the five brothers ran out from behind the Ark's entrance and onto the battlefield as one.

"Protectobots! Merge into Defensor!"


End file.
